Math and Pancakes
by nhsweetcherry
Summary: Just a random bit of fluff between Gordon and John. One-shot.


_Just a very random bit of fluff between Gordon and John._

 _I don't own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story._

Gentle fingers are running through my hair. I flinch as they brush past a sore spot, the pain forcing my eyes open. Things are still rather dark, illuminated only by a dim green glow.

A voice murmurs a soft apology. "Sorry, Gords."

"John?" Wow, my voice is pathetic. What have I gone and done to myself this time?

"You shoved me out of the way of that cave-in, you idiot."

Huh. Had I asked that question out loud? I try to pull myself together and focus my thoughts. "Cave-in?"

"Yeah, we're on a rescue, remember? Or we were, anyway. Virg was just taking the last group of miners up in the Mole when there was an aftershock. Another part of the mine ceiling collapsed. I'd be squashed flatter than a pancake right now if you hadn't pushed me out of the way."

His fingers are back in my hair – a habit unique to my older brothers. If I were to try to mess with anyone's hair, I'd immediately be accused of pranking them…and it would probably be a legitimate accusation.

I bring my thoughts back to what John has said. "So does that mean that I'm flatter than a pancake right now?"

He snorts. "I'd say you look like when Scott tries to make pancakes."

"Um, burned on one side, raw on the other, and with little pockets of flour that didn't get mixed in?"

"Okay, never mind – forget the pancake analogy. You have a concussion for sure. Other than that, you probably have a lot of bruises, but it's a little hard to tell because you're very, very dirty. You don't have any broken bones, and your vitals are stable, so I don't think there's any internal damage either."

I'm gradually feeling more clear-headed, which is a good sign that the concussion isn't too bad. "How long was I out?"

"Just a couple minutes. Scott and Virgil are on their way back down. They should be here any time, so brace yourself for the smothering."

I groan. "Oh, yeah. I forgot about the smothering." I prop myself up on my elbows. Nothing hurts too badly, so I push myself the rest of the way into a sitting position. Dirt and pebbles trickle down my front, some of them inside my uniform.

John's hands hover nearby, ready to help. He's watching me, a gentle smile lighting his vivid eyes. His face is streaked with dirt. "You never could hold still for long," he sighs.

"Hey, the more upright I am, the less smothering there is. You could probably write a mathematical formula for that."

He tilts his head to one side as he considers the suggestion, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I think there are a lot more variables than that."

"It'd be a fun way to crash the next IR meeting that goes on for too long. I can totally see you holding up all these pie charts and graphs."

He laughs at that. "Yeah, okay. I'll work on it."

"Just let me know ahead of time so I can set up a video camera. Scott and Virg's faces will be awesome."

I feel the vibration of the Mole returning. I try to stand, but my legs go all weak and my head pounds, and the next thing I know, I'm sitting back on the ground with John's strong arm wrapped around my shoulders. He's watching me, his eyes somewhere between amused and concerned.

"Tell me again how being upright reduces smothering," he murmurs. He frowns in thought. "I think that will have to be one of the variables in my equation – being upright is only helpful if one is able to _remain_ upright."

I only have time to roll my eyes at him before Scott and Virgil are crowding into our space, checking us over and asking questions. They're in full Smother Mode, despite my semi-upright position. In just a couple minutes, they have me bundled up on the Mole, and we're all making the rumbling journey to the surface.

John sits by me the whole time, his fingers absently playing with my hair. He's as much a Smother Hen as Scott and Virgil, in his own quiet way. He just seems to be able to view his actions a bit more objectively – and with a touch of humor.

Sensing my eyes on him, he looks down and meets my gaze. He sighs. "Next time, let me be the pancake, okay? It's my prerogative as a big brother."

I snort. "Sorry, I'm not making that kind of a promise."

"Brat."

"Well, being a brat is _my_ prerogative as a younger brother. Besides, I like pancakes! Actually, pancakes sound really good right now."

"Mmm…with lots of melted butter and maple syrup…"

"Hey, we'll probably get back to the island just in time for breakfast, won't we?"

The Mole shudders to a halt, and Scott and Virgil come into the passenger area, ready to move me to the sickbay on Thunderbird Two.

"Did I hear you talking about pancakes?" Scott asks. "That sounds good…since I'll get home before you guys, want me to fix some for breakfast?"

"Um, no thanks, Scott," I say quickly. "We were talking about a different kind of pancakes."

John looks at me and winks. I can't help but smirk back at him.

Scott and Virgil look between the two of us, confused.

"Well, okay, then," Scott says. "Everyone ready to head home?"

We disperse – Scott to Thunderbird One, Virgil to the cockpit and John and I to the sickbay. John settles in beside my bed, and as the sound of Two's engines lulls me to sleep, I feel his fingers in my hair again. I smirk – maybe Alan can help me come up with an equation to account for John's particular brand of smothering too.


End file.
